


Fear of the Dark

by hjbender



Series: Just Communication [3]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Action, Danger, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7031878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjbender/pseuds/hjbender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was interesting, the things that went though one’s mind when death seems imminent. There were no flashes of faces for Heero, no instant replays of battles in space or wordless nights in a bed in L2. There was simply Odin, saying, “Afraid so. It won’t be long now.” </p><p>And the bats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The man who walks alone

By the time he found Odin, the man had already lost too much blood.

He lay on the floor of the hangar, his hand pressed to the bullet wound in his chest. Dark red rills squeezed out between his fingers and stained the front of his stolen uniform. His face was ashen, but he appeared serene and relaxed. He turned his head when the boy knelt at his side, and gave him a smile.

“I heard the explosion,” he said roughly. “You took out the Command Tower?”

“Yes.”

“Good job, son.”

The boy stared at the bloody hand on the man’s chest. “You’re going to die.”

“Afraid so. Think the bullet nicked my aorta. It won’t be long now.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as I thought it would.” Odin closed his eyes. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps. “You should go. They’ve probably started—searching the base by now.”

“I want to stay.”

“Why? You’ve seen men die before. This—is nothing new.”

The boy looked at his mentor blankly.

“Go. If they catch you, then I’ve failed the”—he coughed, a harsh, ugly sound—“the only mission that ever really mattered. Now get out of here. Stay sharp, don’t forget—what I taught you. Listen to your gut, but follow . . . follow your . . .”

“Follow your heart,” the boy finished.

“Or . . .”

The boy frowned. “Or what? Follow my heart or what, Odin? . . . Odin?”

There was no response.

There never would be.

*** * ***

**Twelve years later**

On a two-acre block off Vršovická Street, just north of the train station, was a graveyard of shattered bricks and crumbling concrete. Once it had been a formidable building, its lawn and hedges well-kept and its lot under 24-hour video surveillance. Now it was a ruin, charred and crushed beyond recognition. Twisted steel beams jutted from the rubble like the bones of a decayed corpse. A hastily-erected chain link fence stretched around the perimeter, signs in six different languages warning away trespassers. Heero could read them all, but that didn’t stop him; he climbed up the fence, carefully maneuvering around the strands of razor wire, and dropped onto the other side.

He moved easily through the dark, having studied the hazardous terrain in daylight and being already familiar with its topography. This was his sixth return to the site of the former United Earth Sphere Alliance Intelligence Headquarters—and with any luck, it would be his last. He had located the administration wing a few nights before and begun retrieving all the intact hard drives he could find. Hopefully one of them would contain the information he was looking for.

Navigating through a maze of debris, Heero located his access point: the partially-blocked remains of the Headquarters’ elevator shaft, plunging three storeys into the earth. It yawned before him, a black maw of an otherworldly beast. Heero crouched at the lip and shrugged off the backpack he carried, removing a coil of nylon rope, a headlamp, harness, gloves, and anchoring hardware. In less than a minute he had set up his anchor and strapped himself into the harness. He pulled on the gloves and headlamp, slipped on the backpack, and threw the end of his rope down the shaft. Crawling over the edge of the chasm, he checked himself one last time and began his descent.

Three years of peace had not dulled Heero Yuy’s tactical skills in the slightest.

He rappelled into the void, the scraping of his boots and jingling hardware echoing in the deep silence. What he was doing was extremely dangerous, as he was fully aware. The structural integrity of these underground levels was uncertain, and if the shaft were to collapse or a roof to cave in, he would be trapped underground, prematurely entombed and condemned to die of suffocation or thirst if he wasn’t crushed to death in the initial avalanche. His body would never be found. No one knew of his whereabouts, and it would be at least two months before he was missed. It was a monumental risk—but the reward, if it lay within this darkness, would almost certainly be worth it.

A bat swooped past Heero’s head, clicking and squeaking as it soared out of the shaft and into the night. For some reason he thought of Duo. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He resumed his descent, steady and careful, and soon reached the bottom. He unbuckled his harness and crawled from the crumpled top of the elevator car and into the corridor beyond.

It was like walking through a ship at the bottom of the ocean. Heero’s headlamp cut through the blackness, its beam bouncing erratically over broken glass and tile. The floors were littered with damp, moldering papers and twisted pieces of office furniture. Here and there parts of the wall were caved in, spilling insulation and coils of electrical intestines out into the corridor. It smelled of rot, smoke, and death down here; some of the bodies had never been recovered and still lay in their urban grave, decomposing far from the sun’s light. Heero passed a brown streak of blood on the wall and kept moving.

He came to a familiar 4-way intersection. The right hallway was completely collapsed, inaccessible. He turned left, heading toward the records department. There was one last room at the end of the hall he wanted to check, then he would head topside.

The air grew thinner and harder to breathe. Heero knew he wouldn’t be able to stay down here more than fifteen or twenty minutes. The lack of ventilation and his previous visits had probably reduced the amount of breathable oxygen to hazardous levels. He would have to be careful.

He glanced down at his wristwatch. Seven minutes since descent. He had to move quickly, but he also couldn’t afford to overlook anything. This was his last chance to salvage any computer hardware from this place. He didn’t want to leave without knowing he had turned over every stone.

The door at the end of the hall, like the other doors he had encountered on this floor, was locked. Heero crouched down and took a small, scalpel-shaped tool from his belt and slipped it under the handle fixture, prying it loose. It came off a little too easily; a closer look revealed that the heavy steel door was under a lot of tension. Heero studied the ceiling, trying to gauge its reliability. There was no telling what it was like on the other side. The whole ceiling might be ready to collapse. Even pushing the door open might set off a chain reaction and send the floor above tumbling down onto his head.

But he had come this far. He wasn’t about to turn away.

He put his shoulder to the door and slowly pushed. It protested, scraping and screeching against the vinyl composition tiles, but soon there was a wide enough opening that he could squeeze through. He shined his light in, checking for obstacles, then flattened himself and slid inside.

The air was even fouler here, and there was much less of it. Heero went into conservation mode, slowing his breathing and expending as little energy as possible, as if he were freediving. He turned his head, shining light over a bank of charred servers and flat filing drawers against one wall. Industrial shelving units covered the other two walls from floor to ceiling. Boxes and papers and manila folders were scattered in thick, musty piles. A cluster of workstations stood in the middle of the room, chairs knocked from their desks and monitors lying busted on the floor. Most of the towers looked to be in fair condition. A layer of dust and ash covered everything. There must have been a small fire in here before it was evacuated. That would explain the servers and the discarded fire extinguisher by the door.

Heero’s brain ran the calculations: twelve computers, approximately 30 seconds each for dismantling and extraction—that came to six minutes. There was probably only two to three minutes of oxygen in the room, but Heero could make it on less. He could do this—if he was fast.

He darted across the room and launched into action, snapping and tearing into the computers with the multi-tool he carried on his belt. He slipped his backpack from one shoulder and stuffed the harvested drives into it, moving quickly and methodically.

By the time he reached the last computer he was beginning to feel lightheaded. He needed air, soon.

He ripped open the tower chassis and yanked the drive out like a tumor, trailing wires and connectors. Then he made for the door, zipping up and shouldering the backpack as he went. He got halfway through the opening before the pack, bloated with hard drives, snagged on the door’s edge.

“Shit.”

It was a waste of breath, but it had to be said. He didn’t have time for this—he was beginning to feel disoriented. Heero braced himself against the frame, put his foot to the door, and shoved as hard as he could. He spilled into the hallway, gasping for breath.

From somewhere deep in the bowels of the building came a low, metallic groan.

Heero went stock still. Then he leaped to his feet and bolted.

The ceiling collapsed behind him, steel and wood and tile crunching down in huge, thundering chunks. The beam from his headlamp jerked crazily as he sprinted down the hallway, illuminating buckling walls and crumpling overhead pipes. Drywall powder filled the air. A massive object—some kind of safe or storage vault—dropped in front of him, bringing a rain of ceiling tiles, flooring, and furniture. The last thing Heero saw was a silver glint of metal before the bulb on his headlamp was smashed, plunging him into total darkness.

It was interesting, the things that went though one’s mind when death seems imminent. There were no flashes of faces for Heero, no instant replays of battles in space or wordless nights in a bed in L2. There was simply Odin, saying, “Afraid so. It won’t be long now.”

And the bats.

 _Bats_?

Yes. Bats were zipping past Heero’s head, squealing angrily. Dozens of them poured unseen from the hole in the ceiling, scratching, stinking, flying rats, panicked and—

Fleeing. Flying rats on a sinking ship.

 _Afraid so_ , repeated Odin’s ghost. _It won’t be long now._

Heero shut his eyes and threw himself forward. He ran, arms stretched out in front of him, immersed in the cloud of winged rodents. They knew the way out. All he had to do was follow them.

It took a lot of balls to run full speed through a gauntlet of falling rock, and that was when the runner had the benefit of sight. But Heero was nothing if not ballsy. Even if he hadn’t trained under circumstances such as these, his instincts for self-preservation were so strong that even the longest shot was worth a try. It had kept him alive this far. Besides, what other option did he have?

The floor quaked beneath his thumping boots. Wall studs burst into the hallway like compound fractures, tripping him, smashing into his shins and arms. Timbers splintered and I-beams screamed as they bent under the pressure of tons of building material.

This was the Alliance’s last chance to bury Heero Yuy.

He felt the air change suddenly, a space opening up to his right. He swung toward it and entered the main corridor. The bats flew ahead, toward the elevator shaft at the end. Heero opened his eyes and barely made out the dim shape of the elevator car about ten meters away. Up ahead the ceiling distended, preparing to cave in. He surged forward, arms pumping, legs pounding, heart thudding.

He reached the car. The ceiling gave way, burying the corridor and everything in it.

*** * ***

Above ground the rumbling stopped. The bats that had managed to make it out disappeared into the night. A plume of dust rose from the elevator shaft—one final sigh before thieving death stole the last bit of life from the body. Silence settled on the ruins of Alliance Intelligence Headquarters. The stars stared down impassively, winking in their cold, distant mansions.

The nylon rope anchored at the mouth of the chasm suddenly went taught. It shuddered, jerked to the left an inch, shuddered again. It did this for several minutes. Then a dusty hand appeared over the lip, clutching the rope and pulling.

Heero emerged, coughing, his hair covered in a film of fine white dust. He hauled himself from the black hole and rolled onto his back, panting, ignoring the sharp edges of the hard drives in his backpack.

The stars looked beautiful tonight.

He lay there for several minutes, regaining his breath, then sat up and did a quick self-check. He had a gash on his right shin that was bleeding pretty badly; a thick flap of flesh hung down, revealing the smooth red shine of bone. He put the skin back in place and secured it using the headband to which his lamp had once been attached. He had a few smaller cuts and scrapes, nothing serious. No broken bones, no sprains, which meant he could still climb the fence. Unfortunately.

He stood up with a grimace, wiped the powder and dust from his eyes, and walked away from the clutches of death one more time.

*** * ***

Any normal person would have gone to the emergency room and had stitches put in his leg—the psychological trauma of nearly being buried alive would have warranted several years of nightmares and possibly a prescription for benzos—but Heero was far from normal.

He had limped back to his hotel room, gave a nonchalant wave to the startled night clerk at the front desk, and took the stairs. He’d had his fill of elevators for one night.

He entered his room, shed his dusty clothes, and sat in the shower for a long while, eyes closed, appreciating the warm, relaxing patter on his back. Blood ran in diluted pink ribbons down the drain, mixing with chalky streams of dust. Alliance Intel already seemed distant, a nightmare to be forgotten with the first light of dawn.

He finished showering and dried himself off, leaving bright red blots on the hotel towels. Then he pulled out his travel-sized medical kit and sat on the toilet lid, doctoring his leg with saline, iodine, and several butterfly bandages. The wound would be fine in a couple weeks. He healed quickly.

Before calling it a night—or morning, as it was nearly 04:00—he opened his laptop and checked his messages. There was a new one waiting for him. He clicked Retrieve.

Heero smiled. This was fortuitous. Prague was only a couple hours from Munich by train; he would go to the station in the morning and get a ticket. Maybe a late afternoon departure.

He shut the laptop and crossed the room, gingerly lowering his sore body onto the bed.

On second thought, the train station could wait. He wasn’t going anywhere tomorrow morning.

*** * ***

The sun was beginning to set when Heero Yuy stepped off the train at München Hauptbahnhof, wearing his faded blue backpack and carrying a small sport bag on his shoulder. He looked like a typical college student on holiday, right down to the baseball cap and denim jacket. Harmless and unimportant, just another face in the crowd.

He found an acceptable hotel not far from the station, booked a single room, and locked the silver attaché case containing the hard drives in the in-room safe. The case was more secure than the safe in which it was housed, but Heero wasn’t too concerned by that. It was more of a legal precaution; if a would-be thief were to lose a hand or a few fingers because he or she was unable to diffuse the explosives wired to the case’s interior, no one could say that the Defendant didn’t properly secure his volatile belongings.

On his way out, Heero stopped by the front desk. “ _Der Zirkus_?” he asked, pointing first one direction then another.

“Yes, by de English Garten,” said the clerk, picking up on Heero’s limited German. “To de nors two kilometers, off Königinstraße.”

“ _Vielen Dank_.”

“ _Aber bitte_.”

*** * ***

He could have gotten a taxi, but Heero was in no hurry. Besides, walking was good for his wounds. More movement meant more circulation, which accelerated the healing process. It was worth a little soreness tomorrow.

He probably would have been able to find the circus even without directions; there were enough pedestrians en route that all he had to do was follow them. He smiled, reminded of the colony of bats from the previous night. He’d probably be dead if it weren’t for them. Strange how a creature so often associated with death and evil, at least in Western culture, had helped save his life. He would have to mention that to—

Heero’s smile faded. No, not yet. He had to do this first, get his life sorted out. Then he’d begin to clean up the mess he’d started in 195.

Thinking about the past always made him edgy and irritable, and the circus was no place to be dismal. He tried to shift his focus to the present as he paid admission at the gate and wandered into the crowd. The smell of popcorn and hotdogs and cotton candy floated on the cool breeze, the night punctuated with laughter and jolly music and the delighted squeals of youngsters. Balloons bobbed over heads and vendors in brightly-colored costumes called out to passersby, inviting them to partake in the fun they offered. Parents strolled with happy, exhausted children at their heels, young couples with massive stuffed animals tucked under their arms.

Heero walked with his hands in his pockets, taking it all in and wondering what Trowa found so appealing about this multicolored madhouse. The two of them had a lot in common, but Heero disliked crowds and noisy, farcical environments, and he mistrusted the cheerfulness of the circus employees. Surely it had to be put on. No matter how much makeup they wore or how cheerful they acted, at the end of the day when the costumes came off, they were still adults with adult problems and adult responsibilities. Why put oneself through that kind of duplicitous nonsense? It was difficult enough trying to get one life right, much less two. Trowa didn’t need the added stress, surely. What could it possibly benefit him?

Perhaps it was an outlet for emotions he was uncomfortable expressing, thought Heero, watching a young woman with purple pigtails and a red foam nose paint a frog on the cheek of a grinning little boy. Trowa always seemed to have difficulty articulating his feelings. It was possible that the clown persona helped bring those blurry emissions of his heart into focus.

Maybe Trowa felt there was more security in playing rather than being. It wasn’t a novel concept; a person taking a holiday abroad might behave quite differently than when he was in his homeland. A person wearing a mask—or half of one—might be more comfortable shouting his heart to the world than whispering barefaced to a loved one. Or maybe Trowa genuinely enjoyed being an actor, amazing and delighting his audience, relishing their feedback.

That was ultimately what it was all about, wasn’t it? Escaping reality for a little while and pretending to be normal.

Because sometimes being yourself was just too fucking horrible to bear.

The clown-girl smiled as Heero sat in the chair before her. “And what would _you_ like, little boy?” she asked archly, brush poised above her palette.

Heero told her.

A few minutes later he walked away with a little brown bat painted on his left cheek. Strangely, it pleased him very much.

*** * ***

He arrived just in time to catch the last acrobatic feature of the evening, and found an out-of-the-way place to stand and observe.

Tense orchestral music was playing over the speakers. Trowa Bloom—wearing sparkly yellow pants, blue arm sleeves, and little else—was in the middle of his tightrope routine, balancing precariously on a wire 15 meters above the ground, with a perfectly useless parasol in one hand. All was well until he suddenly lurched to the right, lost his balance, and dropped the parasol.

Heero’s breath stopped as he watched Trowa topple—and catch himself at the last second. He hung from the bouncing wire with one hand, his legs pedaling the air. Cries of shock rippled through the audience. He finally managed to lock one heel around the rope and scurried upside-down to the platform. He crawled up and gave the crowd a weary wave to show he was alright. A few people clapped. Most of them murmured to one another, probably something along the lines of day jobs and mediocre entertainment.

Then Trowa abruptly did a cartwheel off the platform and onto the tightrope, and the _real_ show began. The delighted spectators cheered as the young performer dazzled them with an amazing show of balance, agility, and hair-raising feats of acrobatics. He was positively fearless, moving with none of the hesitation and awkwardness he displayed earlier. Of course, that had all been a part of the plan.

Heero grinned. Still a master of deception.

A spotlight suddenly illuminated the opposite platform. Catherine Bloom stood in a glittering sequin skirt, smiling and waving to the audience. She had a bandolier of knives around her waist and a large, sharp-looking boomerang in a sheath on her back. She danced onto the tightrope and began “attacking” Trowa, throwing knives which he would dodge, catch, and throw back. The music escalated to a heart-pounding level.

Then Catherine pulled out all her blades and the two siblings tossed knives back and forth at one another, jumping and flipping. The spectators howled and hurrahed as the astonishing exchange went on. The knives were soon cast aside and Catherine spent several minutes chucking the boomerang at her brother, who quite literally bent himself backward to evade the attacks. At the climax, Trowa jumped completely clear of the wire, did a somersault over Catherine’s head, and landed behind her.

The audience roared. Trowa snatched away her boomerang, drew back as if to throw it . . . and with a few clever movements, magically turned the boomerang into a bouquet. Catherine clasped her hands together and accepted the flowers. The lights dimmed and the audience cheered. The spotlights came on one last time to illuminate the pair as they held hands and bowed.

Heero slipped away without applauding. He would pay his respects in person.

*** * ***

Just north of the circus was an open area where the troupe had their camp set up. Trailers, tents and caravans huddled together under the night sky, yellow lights twinkling and voices engaging one another above the warm notes of a brass band playing on someone’s stereo. It was en route to this place that Trowa and Catherine met Heero, who was waiting for them at the last win-a-toy kiosk.

“Impressive show,” he said, stepping into their path. “I never thought near-death could be so entertaining.”

Catherine beamed and hurried over, greeting him warmly and remarking what a surprise it was to see him, how was he doing, what brought him to Munich?

“I was in the neighborhood,” said Heero, sharing a knowing glance with Trowa, who grasped his hand and put one arm around him in a tender half-hug.

“What a lucky coincidence,” said Trowa with a hint of a grin. “It’s good to see you again, Heero.”

It had been over a year since their last face-to-face meeting. Trowa had gotten taller, his hair shorter. Same style, only now the ends of it brushed against his cheekbones. He was still flushed from the performance and shiny with sweat. Body heat radiated from him like a furnace. Instead of a mask there were small blue stars painted at the corners of his eyes. He arched a brow when he noticed the decorations on Heero’s face as well.

“Looks like you met Penelope. Did she give you that, or did you ask for it?”

“I’d say I was definitely asking for it.”

Trowa laughed softly. His eyes sparkled. He looked happy and healthy—physically and emotionally.

Heero was suddenly aware of a very empty, uncomfortable feeling in his chest. It must have shown on his face because Trowa’s smile faded.

“Why don’t we catch up someplace proper,” he suggested, putting a hand on Heero’s shoulder. “Besides, I could use a shower.”

*** * ***

Trowa was sharing a camper with the Magical Mister E, whose real name was Emilio Bernardini. Emilio was doing a show and would be away for the next couple hours, giving Heero and Trowa some time alone.

“Make yourself comfortable,” said Trowa, peeling off his arm sleeves. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Heero, recalling Trowa’s self-conscious tic, politely turned away while he undressed, and inspected the camper’s interior. It was a strange combination of circus paraphernalia and the flotsam of two young men’s lives: silk scarves, glittery costumes, and playing cards juxtaposed with textbooks, dirty laundry, and dumbbells. Heero picked up one such textbook—a massive hardcover entitled _System Dynamics Volume 2_ —and leafed through it. He gathered from the notebooks and laptop sitting on the dinette table that Trowa must be completing his university coursework online. That would make sense, considering he left in the middle of the semester to take care of Catherine when she was having her kidney problems.

The thought of managing student obligations, family needs, a career as a technical advisor, and a flamboyant hobby all at the same time made something in Heero’s being creak with displeasure. If anyone could juggle responsibilities, it was Trowa; however, Heero understood that the number of tasks a person handled was inversely proportional to their effectiveness, which is why he preferred to focus on one thing at a time. But if Trowa wanted to do it, could do it, and was satisfied with the results, it didn’t matter what Heero thought.

When Trowa emerged from the bathroom, Heero was sitting in the dinette booth with _Fundamentals of Partial Differential Equations_ in front of him. Trowa tied the belt of his bathrobe and walked over to the table.

“This is pretty fascinating stuff,” said Heero, his eyes glued to the page.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t like numbers?”

“It’s not that,” said Trowa, rubbing a towel over his head. “But when you combine math, physics, and chemistry, it can be a little overwhelming.”

“Try focusing on one principle at a time.”

“Can’t. I’m afraid I’ll lose my grip on the other principles if I spend too much time analyzing one.”

Heero quietly shut the book. “Funny, I know a guy like that. A little insecure. Likes to juggle things, lead multiple lives. I think he might be schizoid, though.”

Trowa grinned. When Heero made a joke, you had to be on your toes if you hoped to catch it. “You’re not the first person to tell me that. Cathy’s been on my case about it a few times.”

“She wants you to settle down here?”

“She wants me to be happy. But I’m still trying to figure out what makes me happy.” Trowa suddenly narrowed his eyes at something below the table. “And _you_ still haven’t figured out how to take better care of yourself, have you?”

Heero looked down at his leg. Red blotches had bled through his jeans. “Well, I tried.”

“Let me get my med kit.”

“No need. I’m fine.”

Trowa ignored him and pulled a large plastic case off the kitchen counter. Apparently the first aid kit saw regular use in this household. Trowa grabbed a chair and dragged it over to the booth, sat down, and patted his thigh.

Realizing it was futile to protest, Heero obediently removed his boot and stretched his leg across Trowa’s lap. Trowa rolled up the cuff of Heero’s jeans, revealing the oozing U-shaped gash and feeble, clinging butterfly bandages. The flesh around the wound was bruised and stained with Betadine.

“Jesus, Heero.”

“It looks worse than it is.”

“What the hell did you do, run through a scrap yard in the dark?”

“That’s actually not far from the truth.”

Trowa shook his head. He plucked the bandages off one by one and pumped a mound of foamy antibacterial cleanser onto a sterile pad. He cleaned the area around the gash, wiping away the brown smears of old blood and traces of iodine. Fresh blood welled up from the torn skin and formed thick beads. He blotted them up methodically.

“What were you doing, if I may ask?”

“I was in Prague,” said Heero, watching as Trowa squeezed a clear antiseptic gel onto his shin. “Alliance Intelligence Headquarters.”

“I thought that place was leveled back in 196.”

“It was.”

Using his fingertips, Trowa carefully smeared the gel around the wound site. “Let me guess: you went spelunking.”

“In a sense.”

“What on earth for?”

“Hard drives.” Heero rested his elbow on the table. “When the Headquarters was bombed, they left a lot of computer equipment down in the lower levels. They probably figured it was either destroyed or too dangerous to retrieve. So they fenced everything off and left it.”

“And you went in there alone.”

“Yes.”

“At night, I’m guessing, in a structurally unsound building.”

“Yes.”

“That was very stupid, Heero.”

“I know. I learned my lesson.”

Trowa sighed and pulled a roll of gauze from the kit. He began to wrap Heero’s leg. “What happened? Did the roof cave in?”

“Of course.”

“And you ran for your life.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“God damn it, Heero,” Trowa muttered. “When are you going to grow up? You’re not fifteen anymore.”

“Neither are you, Chuckles.”

“I know that. But at least I’ve got more sense than to go digging around a deathtrap all by myself.”

“You’d be amazed at what you can accomplish when you actually decide to stand up and do something.”

The hand cradling Heero’s calf tightened. “How’s Duo?” said Trowa suddenly. “You talk to him anymore, or did you run for your life from that one, too?”

Something flammable sparked in Heero’s blood. He gripped the sides of the booth and clenched his teeth. That was a low blow and Trowa knew it—of course he did. Trowa was a great tactician, but sometimes he underestimated his opponent. And he was no Heero Yuy.

The Perfect Soldier relaxed as everything became clear.

“If you’re expecting me to chastise you about your life choices,” he said, “you’re going to be waiting a long time.”

Trowa looked up, green eyes wide. Heero glared back.

“What do you want me to say, Trowa? Hide in the circus for the rest of your life? Throw everything you’ve got into your education? Get on the next shuttle to L4 and ask Quatre to marry you?” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “I can’t tell you what to do, what choice is best. I don’t know what’s in your heart. I know you’ve got one—a kind, gentle one—but what good is having a heart if you never listen to it? You might as well be dead.”

Trowa was quiet for a long time. Long enough that Heero began to think his words had been too strong. Trowa was more sensitive than he liked to let on, especially when it came to friends and loved ones.

“I’m sorry,” said Heero. “I was . . . I’m in a weird place right now. I’m trying to get my life sorted out. That’s why I was in Prague. That’s why I contacted you, why I’m here now. I want your advice.”

“My advice?”

“Yes. That surprises you?”

“I suppose so,” said Trowa, blinking. “You’re usually the one dispensing wisdom, not me.”

Heero smiled. “You’re an excellent follower, Trowa, but every now and then you need to step up and lead. It’s good for you.”

Trowa snorted. “Like that. Tell me, Heero, were you born with a compendium of life lessons implanted in your brain, or are you just that fucking enlightened?”

“You’d have to ask my mother.”

“Is she around?”

“No—and that’s what I’m here to talk to you about.”

And he told Trowa everything.


	2. The dark and everything in it

There was a thump at the camper door, and Catherine’s voice called: “Hey, guys! Open up, my hands are full!”  
  
A moment later Trowa turned the latch and let her inside. She was wearing jeans and a thin sweater, her hair still damp and fragrant. She balanced a heavy tray in her hands. Heero cleared off a space on the dinette table and she set it down. There were two bowls stacked beside a covered dish of something steamy and savory smelling.  
  
“I made a huge batch of goulash yesterday and I’m trying to get rid of it,” she explained. “I know leftovers aren’t that appetizing, but you’re welcome to have some, Heero.”  
  
“Thank you, I’d like that.” What Heero didn’t say was he would have eaten Catherine’s Hungarian goulash if it was a week old and stone cold, that’s how good it was. It had been years since he’d last had any, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed it until now.  
  
“No problem,” she said cheerfully. “Like I said, there’s a ton of it, so don’t worry about being modest. So . . . you and Trowa getting along okay? Good God, what happened to your leg?”  
  
The hem of Heero’s jeans was still rolled up, revealing his bandages.  
  
Without missing a beat, Heero said, “I made a disparaging comment about clowns and your brother cut me. He’s getting as good with knives as you are.”  
  
Catherine looked utterly shocked. Then she started laughing. “Oh, a _joke_! Well! Thanks for the compliment, but you should probably leave the humor to the entertainers next time. It’s hard not to take a guy like you seriously.”  
  
Heero shrugged.  
  
“Well, I’ll be over at Mona’s if you need anything,” she said, making her way to the door. “And stop lacerating the guests, Trowa. It’s rude.”  
  
“Yes, Catherine.”  
  
She waved on her way out. “Don’t stay up too late!” And then she was gone.  
  
Heero stared at the door. “So that’s family.”  
  
“That’s family,” said Trowa.  
  
“How does it feel, being a part of something like that?”  
  
Trowa, who had changed into a long sleeve shirt and jeans, slid into the seat across from Heero. “A little overwhelming at times. But otherwise really good.” He passed a bowl and spoon to Heero and dished up the goulash. “I feel like there’s finally some solid ground beneath me. Reliability. It’s difficult to explain.”  
  
“You ever feel trapped?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“You know. Subdued, tied down.”  
  
“No, never. I feel _connected_ , but it’s like the difference between a safety belt and a shackle. It’s a good feeling. Secure.”  
  
Heero swallowed a mouthful of goulash—damn, it was even better than he remembered. “So what do you think I should do?”  
  
Trowa ground some pepper over his bowl and considered Heero’s question. “Stay the course,” he said finally. “From what you told me, it’s pretty safe to assume both your parents are dead, but don’t let that discourage you. For me, even though my parents have been gone twenty years, knowing who they were gave me a sense of closure I didn’t realize I needed.”  
  
His voice grew softer, along with his eyes. “Cathy’s big on researching family history now. She found a photo of our parents in a newspaper from 179. It wasn’t the highest quality, but you can see their faces. David and Mariska Bloom. I look a lot like my father.”  
  
Heero was quiet. He wondered which of his parents he looked most like, if any resemblance could be seen. It would be eerie to see your own features staring back at you in a photo of a dead person. Immortality through inheritance. Heero still wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of being somebody’s son. It was obvious that he was—science hadn’t yet managed to find an alternative to sperm and ovum—but the thought of being a helpless infant, of seeing the person or people who had nurtured him when he was at his weakest and most vulnerable . . .  
  
“No regrets whatsoever?”  
  
Trowa shook his head. “When you find out who your parents were, you’ll understand. It doesn’t change who you are—It just gives you a better sense of where you came from. You’re still going to be the same person you are now, Heero, even if your mother was a duchess or your father a drug addict. You’re still you.”  
  
Heero stared solemnly into his bowl. “You’re right. But I hate spending so much time looking back. I suppose the past disturbs me so much because I can’t change it. It makes me feel helpless. That’s why I run from it . . . and a lot of other things.”  
  
“What things? Did somebody hurt you?”  
  
Was it Heero’s imagination, or did he see a glimmer of fear in Trowa’s eyes?  
  
“No,” said Heero. “It’s just something Odin told me: the only way to live life is in the present. The past is where fools go to cry about the future. I’m trying to let go of some of those concepts and find a healthy balance, but I don’t want to overcompensate and do something I may regret.”  
  
“There’s no such thing as a mistake-free life, Heero.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“So stop worrying about it.”  
  
“I’m not worried.”  
  
“Right.” Trowa half-grinned. “You need to lighten up. Be a little easier on yourself. How can you possibly forgive others if you can’t even forgive you?”  
  
“Because I don’t hold others to such high standards.”  
  
“None of us is born perfect, Heero. Not even the Perfect Soldier.”  
  
“I really wish you guys would stop calling me that.”  
  
Trowa’s grin widened. “Then stop giving us a reason to, Mr Perfect.”  
  
Heero set down his spoon and wiped his hands with a napkin. “Here’s a magic trick for you, Bloom,” he said, and lifted the napkin away with a flourish to reveal his middle finger.  
  
Trowa burst into laughter.  
  
Heero couldn’t help it. He laughed, too.

* * *

They finished their meal and cleaned the dishes, then stepped out into the cool August night. They talked more about family and personal failings, wandering toward the outskirts of the camp. Once they got there, Trowa pulled a crushed pack of cigarettes from his leather jacket and shook one out, lit it with his zippo. He took a long drag and put the lighter back in his pocket with a neat click.  
  
“Cathy thinks I’ve quit,” he said, his words a grayish cloud.  
  
“You probably should,” said Heero.  
  
Trowa smiled. “Yeah, I know.” He flicked the ash away with the familiar ease of one who’s been in the habit many years. “Quatre hates it. He’s never told me, but I can tell.”  
  
“That’s because he’s afraid of hurting your feelings.”  
  
“Quatre’s afraid of hurting everyone’s feelings. That’s just the way he is.”  
  
“Please,” Heero huffed. “Quatre is the 20-year-old chief executive of one of the largest colony-based corporations in the Sphere. He can be as ruthless and assertive as the rest of us. He’s just better at suppressing it.” He paused. “Especially around those he loves.”  
  
Trowa sucked hard on his cigarette, his cheeks hollowing and revealing the handsome outline of his cheekbones.  
  
Heero jammed his hands in his pockets. “You brought it up, not me. I’m just telling you what you already know.”  
  
“What should I do, Heero?”  
  
“I don’t know. But whatever it is, I suggest you do it soon. It’s not fair to keep Quatre’s hopes up if you have no intention of being with him. He’s been holding on to you for years. If you don’t want him, let him go. Let him get over you and find someone else.”  
  
Trowa’s face began to look pained. “I _do_ want him,” he said quietly.  
  
“Then tell him.”  
  
“It’s not that easy.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“I don’t know. I’m afraid.”  
  
“What of?”  
  
“Everything!” Trowa’s cool façade suddenly crumbled, revealing his sensitive—and very passionate—core. “Shit, I’ve never loved anyone in my life. What if I’m incapable? What if something’s wrong with me and I end up hurting him? And why the hell is it that everybody seems to know what _I_ should do except me?”  
  
Heero’s eyes narrowed. “The question you need to be asking yourself is why do you doubt your own feelings?”  
  
“Because I . . . they can’t be trusted.”  
  
When Trowa raised his hand to his mouth, Heero saw that it was trembling slightly. He was quiet for some time, processing. Then, softly: “Who was it?”  
  
“Who else.”  
  
Heero drew in a slow breath. It was his custom to be direct, but now was not the time. “How far did . . . ?”  
  
“All the way. Repeatedly. For two months.”  
  
Heero stared. His mind raced, recalculating everything he’d ever known about Trowa. On one hand, that would explain a lot about his neuroses. On the other hand—goddamn. There were no words. Heero wasn’t even sure if he should say anything. What _could_ one say, when faced with something like this?  
  
“That’s why I doubt my feelings,” Trowa went on, breathing in smoke. “They betrayed me years ago.”  
  
“Years ago you were a child,” said Heero delicately. “Children misinterpret things all the time. Blame themselves for their parents’ divorce, a parent’s death. Think they deserve to be punished. This is especially true when an adult . . . when they abuse the trust of a child. It wasn’t you, Trowa. It was him.”  
  
“Yeah. Well. I still feel bad about what happened to him, how it ended. He took my virginity and I took his identity. How’s that for sick?”  
  
Heero didn’t say anything.  
  
The cigarette got shorter.  
  
“I don’t want any of that ugly shit to touch Quatre. I don’t want to bring that garbage into our relationship. I don’t, I want us to be pure.”  
  
So that was it. The bottom of it all, the answer to the big question. But there was just one problem.  
  
“You can’t have it both ways, Trowa,” said Heero. “You either go to Quatre and tell him about this—and I think you should, because if anyone will understand your pain, it’s him—or you sit here in your garbage and continue to worship him from afar.” As an afterthought, he added: “And don’t think that Quatre doesn’t have garbage of his own to deal with. He’s human. I assure you, he does.”  
  
Trowa’s shoulders slumped. Whether it was in relief or hopelessness, Heero couldn’t say. But he could tell by the sudden long, wet sniff that Trowa was crying.  
  
He stood there, feeling useless and awkward and uncomfortable, while Trowa wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm.  
  
“You’re the first person I’ve ever told,” he uttered. “I’ve been keeping this inside for six years.”  
  
Heero stepped close and placed his hand on Trowa’s shoulder. “Don’t let me be the last,” he murmured, squeezing.  
  
Trowa nodded his silent agreement.  
  
“Come on. Let’s go where there’s better light.”

* * *

They reentered the campsite without talking. Residents passed by, dressed in full costume and either on their way out or returning for the night. Some of them smiled and waved at Trowa, saying hello or asking him how the performance went. Trowa mirrored their smiles and replied in his usual fashion—calm and somewhat indifferent—while Heero quietly observed.  
  
The mask vanished when they entered the camper, and Trowa’s haunted, hollow look slowly returned. He moved stiffly to the kitchen sink and began to rinse out the electric kettle, his lower lip clamped firmly between his teeth.  
  
Heero realized his window of opportunity was rapidly closing. Very soon Trowa was going unplug the connection and start wrapping up his pain like a spider cocooning an insect. But it would break free again—it always did. The beast was only wounded, and until it was dragged out from the shadows and publicly slaughtered, it would continue to eat at Trowa for the rest of his life.  
  
“Sit down,” said Heero, nudging him out of the way. “I’ll take care of it.”  
  
Trowa abdicated, handing Heero the kettle. Heero filled it from the tap and set it on its base, turned it on. Then he began to rummage through the cabinets.  
  
“Teabags are in the cupboard to your right,” said Trowa, removing his jacket and sitting on the small couch beside the dinette. “Mugs are on the end.”  
  
Heero followed the directions and tore open two packets of Twinings, placing one in each mug. He stood at the counter for a while in silence, the kettle lightly gurgling.  
  
“I was sterilized when I was fourteen.”  
  
Trowa looked up, stunned.  
  
Heero stared hard at the countertop. “The team of scientists responsible for my physical conditioning—and my genetic manipulation—had to be in compliance with Mendel’s Mandate if I was to be allowed outside the facility. Are you familiar with Mendel’s Mandate?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Few are. It’s an obscure piece of Earth Sphere Health Council legislation that requires all persons who have undergone genetic modification to be sterilized. Its purpose, at least on paper, is to eliminate the possibility of serious genetic defects in patients’ offspring. But I think it’s more to protect the scientists from litigation.”  
  
The kettle clicked, signaling the water had boiled.  
  
Trowa stared at Heero’s back as he nonchalantly poured the steaming water into the mugs. “Was it a vasectomy?”  
  
“No. They took it a step further and removed parts of my epididymides. In others words, my body can no longer produce sperm. None capable of fertilization, in any case. It’s a very effective technique.”  
  
“Very irreversible-sounding, too.”  
  
“Yeah. Even IVF, the savior of outer space, is useless against this type of cutthroat medicine.” Heero walked to the couch with a mug in each hand. “It’s for the best, though. Children have no place in my life. Careful, it’s hot.”  
  
Trowa took a mug from Heero, who sat down beside him and stretched his legs, popping his neck with a few skillful turns.  
  
“That still doesn’t make it right, though,” said Trowa softly. “You may never want children, but they took away your choice. That’s even worse than what they did to you.”  
  
Heero shrugged one shoulder. “Does it really matter anymore? Whether I want children or not, I’m sterile. Nothing can change that.”  
  
Trowa gazed into his tea. “Have you told anyone?”  
  
“You’re the first.”  
  
They sat wordlessly on the couch, holding their mugs and listening to the faint sounds of laughter and music outside. Trowa drew in a long breath.  
  
“Before I came to work on Heavyarms,” he said slowly, “I thought I had everything under control—my feelings, my reactions, even my thoughts. I was impenetrable. When life . . . when things are really bad, like they were for me for years, you begin to realize it’s better to feel nothing at all. It’s the only way you can survive. You have to harden your heart. Let nothing inside. Because the more open you are, the more it’ll hurt you. And it always hurts you.”  
  
Heero listened, motionless.  
  
Trowa swallowed. “I lost all that when he, when we started working together. He forced me to feel things I didn’t want to feel. He cracked my shell and pulled me out, and the worst part was that I liked it. Or part of me did. My brain said no but my body said yes, and neither would listen to the other anymore. I didn’t know what to do. I had lost control . . . of everything.”  
  
He chewed his lip for a moment, gathering his thoughts.  
  
“When he was killed, I was relieved,” he said. “I thought it was finally over. I wouldn’t have to feel anything again. No more pain, no more pleasure. Nothing at all. And when I realized that, I began to miss him—and I hated myself for it. I should have been glad, but all I felt was emptiness.”  
  
Trowa turned his head. “Does that mean I loved him, Heero?” he asked desperately. “Is that what love feels like?”  
  
Heero was quiet. “I’m no expert,” he finally murmured, “but I know enough to recognize what love is and what it isn’t. And Trowa, whatever you felt for that man was not love. It was addiction.”  
  
A tremulous sigh escaped Trowa’s nostrils. “Good,” he said. His face suddenly crumpled. “Good.”  
  
Heero reached over and took Trowa’s mug, set both onto the nearby side table. Then he slid over and put his arm around Trowa’s shoulders.  
  
Trowa folded up against him, burying his face into the crook of Heero’s neck. His sobs came loud and ragged, shaking his whole body. Heero held him without saying a word.  
  
That was when it dawned on him: it wasn’t the dark itself that was so fearful, but the things which dwelled there. The monsters, the nightmares. The memories and mistakes. The only way the dark could hurt you was if your light went out and you stumbled into something sharp. Sometimes, when that happened, you got lucky and found another light right away. Other times you had to grope for a while, blind and lost, and hope you were heading in the right direction. But every now and then the things that lived in the dark had a way of guiding you back to the light.  
  
Heero’s hand closed in Trowa’s shirt, holding tightly.  
  
And sometimes you had to go back into the pit with another rope.  
  
It was a while before Trowa finally sat up, took a few breaths, and rubbed his face on his sleeve. He looked drained—but relieved. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.  
  
“Thank yourself,” said Heero. “You were the brave one, not me.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have said a word if it weren’t for you.”  
  
“You would have told someone eventually. Or someday you would have put a gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger. I almost did.”  
  
Trowa’s green eyes grew sharp.  
  
Heero reached over and picked up his mug of forgotten tea, now lukewarm, and took a sip.  
  
“Was it . . . the procedure?”  
  
Heero shook his head.  
  
“Then what had you so cornered that you thought self-destructing was your only way out?”  
  
“The past and everything in it,” answered Heero flatly. “I had been running from it for years. Soon I had no more places to run. My world was shrinking. It kept getting smaller and smaller, until it was just me and my .45. But killing myself wasn’t going to solve my problems or fix my mistakes. So I put down the gun and tried to think of a different way.”  
  
Heero tilted his mug rhythmically, stirring the stronger tea up from the bottom.  
  
“Have you ever watched a person try to walk when they can’t see where they’re going, Trowa?” he asked. “They weave and wobble, can’t keep a straight line. Trip over nothing. That’s what happens when you try to black out your past. It throws you off course, makes you clumsy and unbalanced. When I realized that, I decided to confront my past once and for all. I’m going to find out who my parents were, I’m going to find out who I really am, and then I’m going to spend a long time apologizing to all the people I’ve hurt.” He raised the mug to his lips. “One in particular for a very long time.”  
  
“Duo?”  
  
Heero nodded.  
  
Trowa hesitated, then asked quietly, “What happened? I know you two used to live together . . .”  
  
“That was just it—we couldn’t. We tried, but I”—Heero’s voice took on a husky tone—“I was angry. Those first few years after the war, I felt useless. I was bored and impotent. My life seemed to have no direction. And I was jealous. Duo was moving ahead, making things and coming up with new ideas, and I was stuck in a rut, running at top speed and going nowhere. So I took advantage of his feelings for me. I did everything I could to spite him, to make him angry. I was abusive—verbally. Emotionally. I lived for our fights. I wanted him to hate me as much as I hated myself. I wanted to make him throw me out so I could leave him and never look back, so I would have a reason to finally give up and blame someone else for my failings. I wanted him to justify my actions but he never did. You know why?”  
  
Trowa sat, silent.  
  
“Because he loved me. The only person who ever unconditionally loved me, and I punished him for it.” Heero hung his head. “It’s probably too late for me to make amends, but not for you. You’ve still got a chance, Trowa. Don’t let it pass you by. Don’t screw things up with Quatre like I did with Duo. If you do, you’re going to lose one of the best reasons to keep going. Trust me on this.”  
  
Heero was surprised when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at Trowa, who gave him the barest smile.  
  
“If Duo really does love you unconditionally,” he said, “he’ll forgive you. That’s what unconditional means. So don’t give up yet, Heero. Your mission isn’t over.”  
  
Heero grinned with half of his mouth. “You’re dangerously close to giving me hope, Bloom.”  
  
“Then I’ll just keep trying until I do. Even a blind man will hit the bullseye if he shoots at the target long enough.”  
  
“Maybe. If he doesn’t run out of ammo first.”  
  
Trowa smirked. “Yeah, maybe.” He let out a heavy, tired breath and leaned back in the couch, rubbed his face with his hands. “God, what a night.”  
  
“Fuckin ay,” muttered Heero, using one of Duo’s favorite affirmations. It felt appropriate right now.  
  
They sat together in silence for some time, patiently and comfortably, knowing that the bleeding would eventually stop. And it did. It didn’t take long for people like them. Perhaps that was one of the few good things about being child soldiers—they processed stress more efficiently. And much more quickly.  
  
Heero set aside his empty mug and leaned back, mimicking Trowa’s posture.  
  
“You got a place to stay tonight?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Heero. “I should probably think about leaving soon. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”  
  
“Me too. Got two chapters to read by Monday.”  
  
Heero grunted.  
  
Trowa sighed.  
  
Neither moved.  
  
The camper door squeaked open and a young man entered, wearing a glittering black suit with long coattails. He took off his top hat, revealing a thick shock of jet black hair, amber-colored eyes, and an incredibly handsome face. He also couldn’t have been more than 5’4”. This must be Emilio, Heero realized. The Magical Mister E.  
  
Trowa didn’t even open his eyes. “Heero, meet Emilio Bernardini. Em, this is Heero Yuy, an old friend of mine.”  
  
“Hey-howya-doin’,” said Emilio wearily. His accent sounded like it had gotten lost on its way from Manhattan to Milan. “I’d bow, but I’m afraid I’d fall over.”  
  
“That’s alright,” said Heero, standing up slowly. “I was just about to leave. You want to see me out, Trowa?”  
  
“Sure,” said Trowa, pulling himself from the couch.  
  
“Pleasure meeting you, Emilio,” said Heero.  
  
“Sure thing, pal. Catcha later.”  
  
Trowa grabbed his jacket and he and Heero stepped out into the night once more. The air held a slight chill, one that sharpened in the breeze—a reminder that autumn was not far away.  
  
“Well,” said Heero, turning, “I guess this is it. Until next time.” He extended his hand.  
  
Trowa grasped it and smiled. “Until next time.”  
  
Heero leaned into the handshake, embracing his friend. “Take care of yourself,” he said over Trowa’s shoulder.  
  
“I will,” Trowa answered, thumping Heero’s back. “You take care of that leg, bat boy.”  
  
Heero pulled away and gave a halfass salute. “ _Hai_ ,” he said crisply.  
  
For a moment Trowa looked like he wanted to say more, then decided against it. He stuck his hands in his pockets and watched Heero disappear between the caravans, into the dark.  
  
He raised his face to the sky, the carpet of stars thrown out across a blue-black vault, and stood there for a few peaceful moments, gazing without thinking. Then he turned around and walked back to the camper.  
  
He heard the shower running when he stepped inside, and made his way across the alcove that served as his and Emilio’s sleeping quarters. He sat down on his narrow bed and looked at the built-in shelves along the wall. On one of them was a framed photograph, taken by Catherine at the circus last year. Trowa picked it up and brought it closer.  
  
There they were, standing beside each other. Trowa was wearing his old costume, the one with the red checkered vest and ruffled neck collar. Quatre, pink-cheeked and beaming, hugged Trowa’s waist with one arm while the other cradled a lion plushie. Trowa had his arm slung around Quatre’s shoulders, holding him against his side. He could still remember how he felt, how he smelled. Soft and gentle. Cologne and sugar. He could hear his voice, as bright and wholesome as sunlight, the sound of his laughter.  
  
That had been a good day. But it could have been better. If only . . .  
  
Before Trowa realized what he was doing, he had pulled out his sat phone and already punched in the sacred series of numbers. By the time his senses returned, it had begun to ring. With a pounding heart, he brought the phone to his ear.  
  
And he held his breath.

* * *

In a luxury apartment on the Kensington Colony of L4, the phone rang.  
  
Quatre sat at the old Steinway that had belonged to his mother, a pencil behind his ear and a half-empty sheet of music in front of him. He squinted at the paper, his hands automatically finding their way across the keys.  
  
The phone rang again.  
  
“See ay-flaaat, no. See eff, see eff,” he sang, utterly absorbed. “No. See geeee—that’s it! See gee, then the e-flat, eff. Okay, so it’s C major diminished” —he took the pencil from behind his ear and began erasing what he’d scrawled—“not seventh.”  
  
The phone rang again.  
  
Quatre sighed and lifted his hands from the piano. Couldn’t he enjoy a day off without being interrupted?  
  
Wait. It was something important. Something serious.  
  
He rose from the bench and hurried across the living room, grabbing the phone from its cradle just as the answering machine clicked on.  
  
“You’ve reached Quatre Winner. Sorry I’m not available to—”  
  
He pushed a button and cut the recording off. “I’m sorry, hello?”  
  
“ _Hi, Quatre. It’s me_.”  
  
He very nearly dropped the receiver. “Trowa!” he exclaimed, shock and delight attempting to simultaneously occupy his face. Trowa almost never called him; it was always the other way around. Quatre often felt like a nuisance whenever he contacted Trowa. This was a pleasant surprise indeed.  
  
“How are you?” he asked, taking a seat on a barstool. “Is everything okay?”  
  
“ _Yeah, everything’s fine_.”  
  
There was a pause. Quatre frowned, sensing that things were not as fine as Trowa wanted him to believe.  
  
“ _I was . . . thinking about coming up to see you in a couple weeks. Will you be busy?_ ”  
  
“No!” said Quatre a little too eagerly. “No, my schedule is clear. Just a few meetings, I think, nothing really important.” Not as important as _this_ , at any rate. “When do you think you’ll come in? Do you need me to pick you up at the spaceport?”  
  
“ _I haven’t booked anything yet. I’ll let you know when I do_.”  
  
“Okay, sounds good.”  
  
There was a heavy silence.  
  
Finally, Quatre couldn’t stand it anymore. “Trowa, is everything alright? You sound . . . brighter.”  
  
Pause. “ _Not much gets by you, does it, Quat?_ ”  
  
He could hear the smile in Trowa’s voice. And the pet name. Quatre’s heart pounded so hard and so fast that he put a hand over his chest as if to muffle the noise. “Nope!” he chirped, cringing at the high-pitched note in his voice. _For heaven’s sakes, Winner, calm down_ , he told himself. _You’re going to scare him_.  
  
“ _Okay. Well . . . see you soon then_.”  
  
“Right. Talk to you later, Trowa.”  
  
“ _Bye_.”  
  
“Bye.”  
  
Quatre clicked off the phone and calmly set it back on its base. Then he kicked the barstool into a spin, eyes shut and mouth open in a silent scream, thrusting his fists into the air.  
  
Nothing could begin to describe the joy bursting through his heart.  
  
Not even stardust and rainbows.


End file.
